Chapter 205: The White Plague

"Just say anything?"

"Just talk freely—even not from a doctor's perspective is fine," Kraft leaned back comfortably in his armchair, making the atmosphere casual. "We're not going to revoke your degree."

Vilen wiped his hand along the spines of the two books on Human Anatomy, feeling the thick layer of dust, and said coldly, "No, I really could."

"Forget it, Professor Vilen. You let it go back then; isn't he still an outstanding alumnus?" Years had passed since graduation; Davi couldn't even pass a test on that outdated textbook material now, let alone at the fifteenth level.

Kraft pulled Vilen back into his chair, stopping him from imagining how poor his former students' surgical skills must be after years away.

"I see you have many patients with infectious diseases—your exposure to cases must far exceed what you'd get at the academy. You must have your own insights."

Davi shot him a grateful look, swallowed the heart that had risen to his throat, and sank into his chair, thinking hard about what valuable information he could offer.

This was admittedly difficult. Currently, internal medicine was far more conservative than surgery, yet paradoxically open in certain ways.

Its conservatism stemmed from pharmacological theory and drug preparation methods, all rooted in the ancient humoral theory—changes had long since solidified into rigid classics, leaving no room for innovation.

Presenting them to two professors who'd just arrived from the medical academy would be like teaching fish to swim—and risk revoking his license.

Its openness lay in the vast, countless "folk remedies," "ancestral secret formulas," and "missionary prescriptions," all claiming miraculous effects, with many people swearing by their efficacy.

Unlike surgery, where a single wrong cut could kill, "taking something to cure illness" was something anyone—from country farmers to practicing physicians—could opine on, truly achieving universal participation in healthcare.

Many of the pharmacopeias on the shelf came from this source: trying herbs rumored to work, then just leaving them there, never thinking twice.

More terrifying than his former professor spotting untouched anatomy texts was Vilen suddenly flipping open a prescription—Davi might black out right then and there, and truly lose his degree.

Luckily, he'd been stopped.

None of this could be spoken aloud. Davi realized he couldn't think of any clinical content to share. The unusually young professor sat patiently beside him, looking amiable, showing no sign of impatience despite the wait.

{Residence, occupation, economic status, treatment methods, interpersonal relationships}

After a long silence, remembering the professor's initial prompt, he recalled impressions of patients who'd come seeking drug treatments, and began his account:

"Tuberculosis is a poor person's disease," Davi affirmed, enduring Vilen's glare: "You'd better not embarrass yourself."

"I know some people deliberately contract it for aesthetic reasons, so you'll often see it in women and their husbands—but I still say it is entirely a disease of the poor."

He observed Kraft's reaction; the latter nodded noncommittally, urging him to continue.

"I've seen many patients come in with coughing and hemoptysis. Most won't buy cough syrup priced by silver coins, and even fewer will buy honey."

"Out of a hundred, fewer than three," he curled his thumb and index finger, holding up three fingers. "Honey is unquestionably the best remedy for coughing—I recommend it to every severe hemoptysis patient—but few buy it."

"Most residents here are from the New District; I can tell by their clothes. They usually come only when hemoptysis is severe and they're too weak to stand, asking for any way to relieve symptoms quickly."

Davi spread his hands. "There's no way."

"By this stage, it's dire—the lesions in the lungs are bleeding. They must breathe as gently as possible, minimizing lung damage—just like immobilizing a broken limb with splints. Easy to understand."

"The best option is rest in a comfortable environment; the next best is suppressing cough to reduce lung strain. But they mostly choose herbal remedies."

"From my experience, elderflower and elderberry work well—they seem to help slightly with fevers too, but their cough-suppressing effect is far weaker than syrup. So I crush elderberry and flowers into juice and mix it into echinacea decoction."

"Some feel better and go home, resuming their usual activities." Davi lifted the cloth covering his mouth and nose. "Most return—and most of those bring family members; children are common."

"You won't see slender waists or rosy cheeks after coughing in these people. Instead, you feel the cough spreading from one person to another, growing more numerous, drawing closer—rural areas are better; the more crowded the place, the worse it gets, like funeral attendants knocking door to door."

"In the most densely populated parts of the New District, if anyone says they've coughed for over ten days, tuberculosis is the first thing I consider—I advise them to isolate themselves."

"Have you tracked how long they survive after diagnosis?" Kraft noted his observations. These lacked precise statistics—mostly subjective impressions—but matched his expectations closely.

"No, but they don't live long. At a certain point, they suddenly hemorrhage heavily, choke to death on their own blood, or slowly suffocate from breathlessness. Exerting themselves accelerates this outcome."

"That's roughly all I know," Davi drank water to moisten his lips, then noticed the cups in front of the others were empty, and hurried to get more.

Kraft raised a hand to stop him from fetching the questionable sanitary teacups. "If I wanted to introduce surgical treatments here, what difficulties do you foresee? After all, my methods cause bodily damage, unlike oral drugs."

"No, why would you think that?" the pure internal medicine physician asked in surprise. "As long as there's an effective option, people will try it—even if the mortality rate is fifty percent or higher."

"If I must name a difficulty, it's that few here can afford your personal fees—even the cost of your four-wheeled carriage from the academy is too high."

Charging for experimental treatments was something only possible in an era of medical chaos. "Then there's no problem. I'll begin trialing artificial pneumothorax here, charging only a minimal procedure fee; the space rental will be paid at market rate."

"Charging such fees makes me uneasy," Davi didn't need to turn to know Vilen was watching him—the threat was visible. "When will you start?"

"Start screening suitable patients right away. If Dr. Davi is interested, you may also observe the technique." Kraft opened the box Kuop had carried in—neatly stacked bundles of sterilized white cloth, inside lay the full set of tools manufactured by the Vesterminster Workshop.